


The Gift of the Geamhradh

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [69]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/M, Harems, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 20:32:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15127295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: It was, without question, the part of being king he resented the most, for summer was the season in which each section of the kingdom sent to him their best and most beautiful, those whom each community had carefully chosen to be their representative in what was still seen as the most sacred and powerful of spaces: the royal harem.





	The Gift of the Geamhradh

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Scars. Prompt from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).

The great wheel of the world had spun again, the sun moved from one year to the next, and the time had come once more for ceremony, circumstance, and parade. It was a time of year that the king had always resented. In his youth he’d thought that time would soften his resentments, would round the hard edges that arose in him when the summer came and the castle became less a place of intention and training than a festival house with a few swords about.

It was, without question, the part of being king he resented the most, a fact that most of his people--most of his staff--would have found counterintuitive, if not simply impossible to believe. For summer was the season in which each section of the kingdom sent to him their best and most beautiful, those whom each community had carefully chosen to be their representative in what was still seen as the most sacred and powerful of spaces: the royal harem.

Once, it had been widely believed that the bevy of women and men who made up the royal harem were central to the regent’s survival and the kingdom’s success, for what better means could there be to temper a belligerent queen’s anger or to rouse a timid king’s strengths? What better way for each part of the vast rolling lands to have their voice heard than to have it whispered in the queen’s ear when she was at her most open, either tired from or still swimming in pleasure? What better way for a king himself to be shaped than by the loveliest hands in the land?

There was, the king had to admit, a certain logic to the practice: it pleased the people and it pleased their ruler. In theory, at least.

His mother had made little use of the harem during his lifetime; she had taken what she wanted from it and emerged from it with him. He was a child of the people, as his mother and all who had come before her had been, and once he lay in her arms, her interest in the men and women of the harem had waned. But the harem itself did not die, nor the ceremonies that surrounded it; the queen had still welcomed a new assembly each summer, had lain at least thrice with each paramour during their year, had kissed all in turn when their time had ended and sent them with great affection back home to their families, their communities, wearing a newfound renown.

Even in those later years, she had found succor there, and there had been, the king knew, a handful of paramours she had considered bringing into the palace as her consort, a role the old stories called The Lover of Lovers. But in the end, she had let each of them go, sent them back to their lives, and though she had never said so to her son, the king believed that in the end, as she lay dying, she would have given up the crown to see just one of those she had loved at her side.

Instead, there was only he to hold her hand and wipe tears from her face and to tell her how much he loved her, how lucky he had been to be born as her son.

When she died in the small hours of a cold night, the wicked wasting having done its work on her lungs, he’d bend over the balcony beside her bed and wept until his tears froze at his feet. Only when the first shards of dawn made their way over the trees did he shake himself free of the frost and take word himself into the corridor that his mother was dead.

Ten years that had been now; this winter would make it eleven. And still there were times when it felt as if he’d never shaken the chill of those hours, the cold that seemed to have seeped into his very bones.

Perhaps that was why he dreaded summer so much: the contrast between himself and the rest of his people was especially stark then. Everyone seemed so happy--from the gardeners to the farm hands to the scullery boys in the kitchen. Even his Master at Arms, she whose smiles were rarer than white deer, radiated contentment in the days when the sun was long and the moon’s visits short. The preparation for the welcoming ceremony was a joyous time, then, for the residents of the palace; and if the king did not share their joy, he did what he could to conceal it. Sometimes more successful than others.

“Majesty,” his Master at Arms hissed in his ear, “do at least try to pay attention. These people are here expressly for you.”

“I am well aware of that,” the king said, his eyes never moving from the extravagance playing out in front of him, the colorful writhe of barely-clothed bodies moving in excellent time to not-so-excellent music. “And I am doing my best, Nat. It’s simply been a long day.”

Nat leaned back from the throne, settled square at his shoulder, and though she said no more, the king could feel her concern, though whether it was for appearances or for him he could not say. For a creature born of war, she had a surprisingly keen eye for propriety, for how his actions or words were being met, and he had long ago learned that her instincts in these matters were usually right.

So he sat up straight and did his best to focus on what was happening before him.

This part of the ceremony, the music told him, was reaching its end; the display of synchronicity, of harmony, between all six parts of the kingdom expressed through lively movement and dance. The steps were composed by the king’s own dance master and sent by stallion to the homes of each of the chosen a fortnight in advance, giving the new paramours two weeks of training with a member of the king’s corps so that when tonight came, their great coming out, each would be ready to move as one and yet have a chance to impress.

They were faceless to the king now, so quickly did they move, and he had paid scant attention to the preparation his staff had tried to provide. There were four men this year, he recalled, and two women, but where each was from and why each had been chosen he could not remember and truthfully did not care. They didn’t matter, any of these wheres and whys, for his time with these people would be driven by obligation and tradition; they had a choice, his paramours, whether to come to court or not, while he had no say over their relations. He would go to bed with each as required, take what fleeting enjoyment he could, and then go back to the business of being a king: managing prosperity, ensuring the safety of his people, building alliances with other lands. Those were his true duties; serving the harem was a waste of his time.

He was so lost in his own thoughts that he was startled when the music stopped, when the frenetic rainbow before him grew still. The chamber itself went silent, as if the whole room were holding its breath.

 _Oh_ , the king thought with some relief. _It’s nearly done_.

With the speeches behind him, the feasting, and now at last the dance, all that lay ahead were the formal introductions and then he could retire and wash the perfume of this long night from his skin.

His First Courtier, Stark, stepped from behind the throne and onto the top step of the low dias on which the royal party sat. He extended a hand with a flourish.

“My dear,” he said, “ascend and greet your king.”

The paramours had arranged themselves in a line and the person at its head reached to their shoulders and unclipped the long, colorful overtunic that had defined their body during the dance. Now, though, freed from its folds, the woman’s long, mahogany hair tumbled free along with the soft, tanned curves of her breasts. There was still a whisper of cloth at her waist, but it served only to accentuate the powerful lines of her legs; this was, the king thought, a woman who knew horses well. She would be something to fear on a mount.

She took the stairs carefully, watching her bare feet, and when she came near to the top, she took Stark’s hand and let him guide her up and over the last step, lead her to stand before the king.

She was lovely; there could be no question of that. Especially when he heard the catch in Nat’s breath. Perhaps this paramour would find more entertainment at court than he. So much the better.

“Your highness,” Stark said, “this is Wanda of the Achadh province. She is their gift to you, their treasure, which they bid you hold close and often in the coming year.”

Up close, the smile on her face seemed unsteady and her cheeks were red-tinged and hot. She was nervous, as so many of them were at first. All the training and preparation she’d received, the pride and no doubt pressure she carried from her community: all of these things must seem gossamer-thin when standing before the king himself in hardly any clothing at all.

He reached out and lifted her fingers from Stark’s. “Wanda,” he said, summoning the familiar words, “you are welcome here. It is my honor to be trusted by those who love you with such an exquisite treasure.” He kissed the back of her hand and then tipped forward and cupped her cheek. “Is it your will that I hold you close and often?”

Her dark eyes softened, leeched free of some of her fear. “It is, Highness.”

He kissed her then, a brief press of his lips over hers, and she squeezed his hand, held onto him for a moment, quite tight.

“There now,” the king said, drawing back, “welcome, Wanda.”

The assembled company made the room ring as they shouted: “Welcome, Wanda!” into the warm, summer wind.

The formalities were repeated four more times in rapid succession: he greeted Samuel from the Beinn region; Margaret from Flùr; Clint fron Craobhan; and Thor from Stoirmeil. They were lovely, each and every one, in distinct ways: Samuel had a broad smile and quick wit; Margaret shone with confidence; Clint had a sharp, knowing gaze; and Thor was built like a redwood with a booming laugh to match. They would, the king thought, be a pleasant group to spend time with, when he had to, and would also do much to entertain each other. They would enjoy their time at court, would make their own fun, of that the king had little doubt.

And then there remained only one figure at the foot of the stairs.

When Stark called to him, the man, this James of Geamhradh, hesitated--just for a moment, just enough for him to draw what looked to the king like a deep and much needed breath. And then he reached up and shook himself free and the king, the court, the assembly all gasped.

For the man was beautiful--his chest carved from soft marble, his hair dark, his eyes a hooded blue--but his left arm was mottled with scars, fierce angry things that wound from his elbow to his shoulder. They looked like knife strikes, some of them, but others radiated outward, as if he’d been struck by lightning. It made something in the king’s gut twist, a hollow fist that clenched around his heart--because he’d seen such marks before. But where?

He stood up, thrust himself into the strange, startled silence, snapped protocol straight in two. “James,” he said. “Come here.”

The man’s mouth set. “If you highness is going to reject my people’s gift, I would prefer not to fall from such a height.”

Oh, how the assembled buzzed at that. Even Stark, the unofficial prince of debauchery, turned his eyes to the king, shocked.

The king, however? He found his mouth curving.

“Very well,” the king said. "Then I shall come to you."

He took the stairs two at a time and when he stood beside James, he found there was a fierceness in the man’s eye that he admired.

“What is it that makes you think I will reject the gift of the Geamhradh?” he said quietly, so that only James himself might hear. “Do you think so little of me as king?”

“I think,” James said, “that a standard has been set that is so high that those among us who are flawed in anyway, less than perfect, will be troubled to find a place in the king’s harem. Yes.”

“Was it not your choice to come here? Did your people not ask if you were willing?”

“They did ask and I accepted, knowing full well what reception I might receive.”

The king frowned. “I don’t understand. Why would you think that I’d send you away?”

“Because,” James said, his face a sudden storm, “I got these scars in your war, Highness. The one you picked with the Cuan. Do you not recognize your handiwork?”

And then the pieces snapped into place, the shards of terrible memories he thought he’d long ago banked, and all at once the king knew whose work this was, how this gorgeous creature had come by them.

He laid a palm on James’ bicep and watched his fingers try to swallow the marred flesh. “You were captured,” he said softly. “By the Cuan’s king. Weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And for your service to me and to our lands, you were rewarded thus by his cruelty, were you not?”

James’ face softened, like an ice block kissed by the sun. “Yes, highness. I was.”

The king felt a surge of something in his heart, a fierce wave of affection and grief. “Then you,” he said, reaching up to stroke James’ face, “are indeed the best and most beautiful that Geamhradh has to offer.” He raised his voice so that the assembly might hear. “You are welcome here, _gaisgeach_ , hero of our land. It is my honor to be trusted by those who love you with such an exquisite treasure.”

The room hummed, a sudden cascade of sound.

He lifted his words louder. “James,” he said, “is it your will that I hold you close and often?”

The man looked startled, a deer flushed from a meadow into one even more green, and yet he did not flee. “I--Highness, yes. It is.”

The king looked into his eyes. “May I kiss you?” Another propriety smashed; the question had already been asked and answered: James had already said yes. And yet, the king felt, it was important that he ask again.

James’s mouth parted. A challenge. “No,” he said, bold, “but I will kiss you.”


End file.
